Zero, Zero
by Sacskink
Summary: WIP. Continuing the events from Ursa Major, Lost and Found and a Day in the Country. A subtitle might be Richtofen and Rickenbacker. Please R&R.


**ZERO, ZERO**

by Sacskink

_Beginning overlaps events of "A Day in the Country."_

_Thanks to Nina Stephens for permission to build upon her original story, "Ursa Major." Also, thanks to GSJessica for suggesting this plot._

_As always, I do not own the Hogan's Heroes characters, nor those characters created by Nina Stephens. _

**Thoughts of a German Colonel**

Kommandant Wilhelm Klink sighed as he sorted through the paperwork on his desk. Reports, requisitions, personnel rosters…._An army marches on its stomach, but a prison camp drowns in its paper_, he grumbled to himself.

Sorting through the pile he pulled out several sheets of blue paper: the latest list of requests and demands from the prisoners at Luftstalag 13. It felt odd to see Sergeant Kinchloe's firm, neat script instead of Hogan's impatient scrawl. Almost as odd as having nothing but reasonable items instead of the bizarre, even ludicrous, requests Hogan used to include just to be annoying.

Klink permitted himself a moment to recall some of the more outlandish things Hogan had tried to wheedle out of him in the past: miniature golf courses, a tennis court, picnic lunches, kite-flying contests, even coed dances! No to mention the times Klink discovered that those lists were written in French, Spanish, Greek, even once in Chinese!

Glancing over the current offeriing,he had to admit that the first item—a complaint about inadequate rations in the prisoners' mess—was justified. Hogan had been complaining to him about short rations the past couple of weeks. Klink laid down the list and ferreted out his copy of the last supply requisition.

_Berlin has been cutting back on everything—even ammunition for my guards_. This fact reinforced what Klink already knew in his heart: the war was going badly for the Third Reich. Vital material was being redirected to combat units trying to stave off the inevitable. Klink looked up, focusing his eyes on the photographs on his office wall: mementos of an earlier war, another time of martial glory and ultimate downfall. _You've seen defeat before, soon you'll see it again_, he thought sadly. He sighed.

Klink once more forced himself back to the business at hand. He couldn't officially increase ration allotments because officially the needs of incarcerated enemies—and the loyal Germans assigned to guard them—were of very low priority. _Perhaps I can arrange to barter the prisoners' labor to the local farmers in exchange for food._ Of course, such a deal would need Hogan's cooperation, but he wasn't likely to object, as they had done this many times in the past. In fact, the prisoners seemed to enjoy farm work. _As to what else they might be up to, _he thought,_ I'd prefer not to know. _

A knock on the door interrupted his musings. Sergeant Schultz peeked in.

"Herr Kommandant," he began.

"Yes, yes. What is it, Sergeant?" Klink said impatiently.

"The trucks are ready to go." At the "request" of the SS, Klink had authorized a work detail to clear a mudslide from one of the forest roads between Wurzburg and Hammelburg. Hogan had taken the opportunity to barter the prisoners' labor for extra bread, and other concessions.

"Very well." Klink glanced at the frost-obscured windowpane. He called the sergeant back.

"Schultz."

"Jah, Herr Kommandant?"

"Keep a close eye on the weather," he said quietly, "There's supposed to be a stormfront moving in. If conditions change, get everyone back to camp." _I don't care what the SS has to say, the Geneva Convention says I don't have to make them work outside in a blizzard._

"Jawohl!" Schultz saluted briskly. He was a soft-hearted man, and was pleased that his commander cared about the welfare of his men and their charges.

The door closed and Colonel Klink went back to his work. Outside, the rumble of the departing trucks receded into the distance.

Late in the afternoon, after a frustrating series of phone calls to Headquarters, Klink decided to clear his head with an inspection tour of the compound. He buttoned his greatcoat and wrapped the white aviator scarf around his neck before donning his peaked cap with its eagle insignia. Nodding briefly to his attractive secretary, Fraulein Hilda, he stepped outside and began his circuit.

As he wandered, his allowed his thoughts to drift. _When did you become a "desk jockey?" _he asked himself, thinking the German equivalent of the American phrase. Klink enjoyed the novelty of the Americanisms he had picked up over the years, even if he was too self-conscious to use them when speaking to the prisoners.

Even though the last plane he had qualified in was now 20 years out-of-date, he still thought of himself as a misassigned flyer. Perhaps this explained his sympathy for the American, Colonel Hogan, the bomber pilot and squadron leader who had spent the better part of the past three years behind Stalag 13's barbed wire. At least Klink could dream of flying again, while Hogan was permanently grounded.

Klinkhad just finished inspecting Guard Tower #3 when the wind whipped up and the rain began to fall. The colonel crossed back to his office as quickly as decorum would allow. He stopped, one hand on the doorknob, when he heard a frantic shout behind him.

"Herr Kommandant! Herr Kommandant!" Corporal Unger came galloping out of the red-and-white striped gatehouse, his boots making slapping sounds in the mud as he ran, a radio-telephone (or walkie-talkie as the Americans called it) in one hand.

"Corporal! What is it?" Klink knew only something urgent would have induced the guard to leave his nice, dry post to brave the wind and rain in the soggy compound.

"It's Sergeant Schultz! There has been an accident…."

_Incredible_.

The Kommandant handed the walkie-talkie back to Unger, still not quite believing what he had heard.

Schultz reported the truckload of prisoners had overturned, and one of the prisoners was missing.

Klink knew instinctively this wasn't one of those carefully orchestrated "escapes." Not only would Hogan not risk the lives of his men so cavalierly, but the missing man was Hogan himself, someone who definitely would not be playing hide-and-seek in the woods. Not anymore.

The colonel ran one hand over his face. _If it isn't a trick, and Schultz can't find him, then we have to assume the worst._ According to Schultz, not only were several men—both POWs and guards—injured, some severely, but Hogan's guide dog was also hurt. _Hogan would never have gone into the woods without Major. It would be suicidal._

Kommandant Klink spoke first to his secretary. "Fraulein Hilda! Call Doctor Voss. Tell him to get here as soon as he can. Then call Herr Schnitzer—same message."

Next, he ordered search parties to the location Schultz had described as the site of the accident, with orders to report at regular intervals.

Finally, he poured himself a glass of schnapps and downed it in one swallow. All he could do now was wait.

**Later, in the Barracks**

The next evening the setting sun cast a rosy glow over the fresh snow blanketing the prison compound. The powder softened the silhouettes of the wooden huts and guard towers. _My God,_ thought Sergeant Kinchloe, looking out the window, _it's almost beautiful_. Almost.

Behind him, the men of Barracks Two were going about their evening routine. Louis LeBeau, who had been knocked cold when the truck flipped over the day before was in his bunk. Besides several stitches in his scalp, he was suffering from a mild concussion.

Andrew Carter and young Private Hadley had appointed themselves back-up cooks while LeBeau recuperated. Their first offering, a cabbage-and-potato soup using whatever additional ingredients they could scrounge, wasn't bad.

"I'm fine. Really, I'm fine!" LeBeau had complained when he saw them rooting around in his _sanctum sanctorum, _the footlocker that served as the pantry and _batterie de cuisine_.

"C'mon LeBeau," soothed Carter without stopping his fascinated exploration of the private stores, "The doc told you to stay in bed." _Ginger, cinnamon, tarragon. Tarragon? Gee, I wonder what that is._

"Now, now, Monsieur LeBeau. Either you stay where you are, or _I'll_ make supper!" threatened Newkirk, causing a ripple of amusement from the barracks' inhabitants. In LeBeau's opinion, the only thing lower than what the Americans deemed food was British cooking.

"Bubble and squeak, kidney pie, bangers and mash, spotted dick," (_see note)_ the Englishmen intoned, enjoying the look of terror in LeBeau's eyes. _'E's turning green, 'e is!_ Of course, it was a (mostly) idle threat. Not only was Newkirk's arm in a sling, but the other men probably would have deserted to the Germans before touching anything Newkirk prepared. LeBeau wasn't the only one who loathed English food.

"Do you see anything?"

"No, not yet." Kinch answered LeBeau's anxious question. His attention shifted to the front gates. He took another sip from the mug of soup in his hand.

They had spent the previous night in sleepless worry. Although some of the prisoners blamed Schultz for ordering them back to camp while Hogan was unaccounted for, Kinch realized the Sergeant of the Guard had made the right decision, however painful.

Through with his inventory, Carter quietly slipped up behind Kinch to join the vigil. It was only this morning, after roll call, that they learned Colonel Hogan had been found alive and well by a local farmer. Carter couldn't wait to find out how the officer had managed to navigate that far all alone. _It's getting to the point where I'd believe the Colonel can do just about anything._

"There they are!" Kinch and Carter cried almost in unison. A pair of headlights snaked along the perimeter road, stopping only briefly as the gates swung open, then coming to a stop by the kommandatur. The other men crowded around the door. Groups of men were clustered at the doors of the other huts, too.

The prisoners let out a triumphant whoop when Colonel Hogan climbed out of the car.

_Note: traditional English dishes. _

**The Prodigal Returns**

Colonel Klink was waiting on the porch of the kommandantur. Hogan mounted the steps and the two officers exchanged salutes. Even from across the compound, Kinch noticed the flash of white from the thick pad of gauze wrapped around Hogan's hand.

A few minutes later, the POWs surrounded their CO, slapping his back and talking excitedly as they hustling him inside.

"How is everyone?" asked the Colonel as he took his place at the end of the common table. He automatically started to assume his customary pose, balancing on one leg with his otherfoot resting on the bench, then thought better of it and sat down instead, stretching outto relieve the aching of his bruised knees. On the drive back, Schultz and Langenscheidt had filled him on what had happened. Now he would get the report from his men directly.

"Louie?"

"I am fine, mon colonel," LeBeau asserted. The creak of the slats and the change in the Frenchman's voice told Hogan he was starting to get up.

"You stay right where you are, Corporal," Hogan ordered. As if Hogan's command wasn't enough, Kinch added his own stern look. Abashed, LeBeau sank back on his bunk.

"And you, Newkirk?"

"Just a strained muscle. Be right as rain in a few days." Hogan could hear him idly shuffling a deck of cards. _Yes, you'll do._

"How about—"

"We can finish the pleasantries later, Colonel," Newkirk cut in, "'ow about telling us what the bloody 'ell 'appened to you!" Several voices seconded his demand. They all wanted to hear Hogan's story.

TO BE CONTINUED…..


End file.
